Across the ballroom, standing beside a pillar with a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers, Calder is staring at me.
He's smiling like he hasn't got a care in the world.
Like he's won.
He raises his glass, toasting me.
It's a declaration of war.
"He has him." My voice doesn't sound like mine anymore. It sounds like something dragged up from the bottom of hell. "Calder has Hale. He's been playing us this whole fucking time."
Silence on the comms.
He continues to watch me, savoring it. Like I'm an animal in a cage, finally understanding the bars were never going to open.
But he's wrong.
Because the thing about cages is this: they only work if the creature on the inside still believes in rules.
I don't.
Not anymore.
I'm not trapped in here with him.
He's trapped in here withme.
And he has no idea what he just unleashed.
FIFTY-FOUR
TRISTAN
Calder's smile widens.
He drains his whiskey, sets the glass on a passing tray, then starts walking toward Keira.
She's a few feet away, talking to some random person.
Move.
I'm already pushing through bodies. Shouldering past a waiter. Knocking a glass from someone's hand—but it doesn't matter, because Calder is closer.
Faster.
His hand closes around her elbow.
He leans in. Whispers something against her ear.
And I watch everything drain from her face.
Her body goes rigid. That specific kind of fear I promised she would never feel again.
Then she looks at me.
Across the crowd. Through the bodies and the flashy lie of this evening.
Her eyes find mine.
